Settling Accounts Return Engagement: Book One of the Settling Accounts Trilogy

by Harry Turtledove

  Forrest scowled across the table at him. “What can you tell me about this business? Anything?”

  “Right this minute, sir, no,” Potter answered. “If the Yankees are getting messages to our niggers, I don’t know how they’re doing it. I don’t know how they’re getting word of our shipments, either. That’s probably not too hard for them or the niggers, though. They could do it here, or in any one of half a dozen—likely more—railroad dispatch offices, or at the factories in Birmingham.”

  “I’d like to put you in charge of finding out,” Forrest said. “You seem to have more ideas about it than General Cummins does.”

  Part of Potter craved the extra responsibility. The rest of him had more sense. He said, “Sir, there aren’t enough hours in the day for me to give it the attention it ought to have. General Cummins is a good officer. If he can’t track down what’s going on, odds are nobody can.”

  “He hasn’t done it yet, and he’s had his chances,” the chief of the General Staff said. “You’re right, Potter: he’s sound. I know that. But he hasn’t got the imagination he needs to be really top-notch.”

  “If that means you think I do, then I thank you for the compliment,” Potter said. “But I’m sure General Cummins has some bright young officers in his shop. Give one of them his head, or more than one. They’ll have all the imagination you could want—probably more than you can use.”

  “With Cummins in charge, they won’t get the chance to use it. He’ll stifle them,” Forrest predicted.

  “Sir, there are ways to finesse that.” The word made Potter wonder when he’d last played bridge. He loved the game. Like so much of his life, the chance to sit at a table for a few hands had been swallowed up by duty.

  “I know there are,” Forrest said. “I’d still rather the imagination came from the top. That idea you had for finding spies here—”

  “Has come to exactly nothing so far,” Potter pointed out.

  “It will, though.” Forrest sounded more confident than Potter felt. “I don’t know when, but it will. Soon, I hope. What I do know is, Cummins wouldn’t have had the idea in a million years.”

  “Somebody over there would have,” Potter said.

  Nathan Bedford Forrest let out a deeply skeptical grunt. “I don’t think so. The President doesn’t think so, either.”

  “Really?” Potter pricked up his ears. “I would have thought I’d have heard that from the President himself if it were so.”

  “Not lately. He’s been at the front a lot.” Forrest made a face and dropped his voice. “You didn’t hear that from me, dammit.”

  “Yes, sir.” Clarence Potter smiled. Forrest still didn’t. He’d let his mouth run freer than it should have, and it worried him. Considering Featherston’s temper, it should have worried him, too. Smiling still, Potter went on, “What’s he doing up there, playing artilleryman again?”

  Now the chief of the General Staff gaped at him. “How the devil did you know that?”

  “Well, I didn’t know for sure, but I thought it was a pretty good bet,” Potter answered. “Remember, the two of us go back to 1915. We go back longer than he does with any of his Freedom Party buddies. We haven’t always got along”—now there was an understatement; Potter remembered the weight of the pistol in his pocket when he came up to Richmond for the 1936 Olympics—“but I do have some notion of the way he thinks.” And he has a notion of how I think, too, dammit. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be in uniform right now.

  “All right, then.” Forrest didn’t sound sure it was all right, but he nodded. “Yeah, he’s done some shooting. But you didn’t hear that from me, either.”

  “Hear what?” Potter said blandly. Forrest made a face at him. Potter decided to see if he could squeeze some extra information out of the younger man now that he’d caught him embarrassed: “Sir, are we going to hold Richmond?”

  “We’ll find out, won’t we, General?” Forrest answered. Nodding, Potter dropped it. He could tell he’d got as much as he would get.

  XVI

  Tom Colleton had a rain slicker on over his uniform. The hood was made to cover his head even when he wore a helmet. In spite of slicker and hood, cold water dripped down the back of his neck. And he had it better than the damnyankees looking his way from a small forest between Sandusky and Cleveland: the rain was at his back, while it blew into their faces. He’d never liked rain in the face. Some of the Yankee soldiers, like some of his own, wore glasses. For them, rain in the face wasn’t just an annoyance. It could be deadly if it blurred an approaching enemy.

  A barrel rumbled up the road toward him. He wouldn’t have wanted to try sending barrels anywhere except along roads right now. The rain had turned an awful lot of dirt into mud. He’d seen a couple of bogged-down barrels. They needed specialized recovery vehicles to get them out of their wallows.

  The man commanding the barrel rode with his head and shoulders out of the cupola. Tom approved of that, especially in this weather. A lot of people would have stayed buttoned up and dry and comfortable inside the turret—and if they couldn’t see quite as much that way, well, so what? If you took care of your job first and yourself second, you were more likely to live to keep on doing your job.

  As the barrel drew near, the commander ducked down into the turret. He must have given an order, for the machine stopped, engine still noisy even while idling. The commander popped up out of the cupola again like a jack-in-the-box. He waved to Tom. “What’s going on up here?” he called, pitching his voice to carry over the engine and through the rain.

  Probably a lieutenant or a sergeant himself, he had no idea he was talking to a lieutenant-colonel. Tom gave the same answer any foot soldier who’d seen some action would have: “Not a hell of a lot, thank God.”

  “Sounds good to me,” the barrel commander said. By his accent, he came from Texas, or possibly Arkansas—somewhere west of the Mississippi, anyhow. He wiped the back of his hand across his face. “I don’t mind the rain one goddamn bit, let me tell you.”

  “Because of the lull, you mean?” Tom asked. As if to belie the word, an automatic rifle not too far away stuttered out a short burst. Several shots from Springfields answered. Tom waited to see if anything big would flare up.

  So did the barrel commander. When the firing died away instead, his smile showed nothing but relief. “Partly the lull, yeah,” he said. “But there’s one thing more: weather like this here, all the poison gas in the world ain’t worth shit.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Tom said. He didn’t want to think about wearing a gas mask in a driving rain like this. All his thoughts about eyeglasses came back, doubled and redoubled. With a gas mask’s portholes, you couldn’t even peer over the tops if the lenses got spattered. You were stuck trying to see through drip-filled glass.

  “Damnyankees throw that stuff around like it’s going out of style.” The barrel commander patted the cast steel of the cupola. “Sometimes inside here, we don’t know they’ve done it till too late.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Tom admitted. He imagined rattling along inside the noisy barrel, maybe firing its cannon and machine guns to add to the din. If gas shells started bursting near you, how would you know? Likely by getting a lungful of the stuff, which wasn’t the best way. Colleton asked, “Haven’t you got any filters to keep it out?”

  “Yeah, but we have to seal everything up for ’em to work at all, and you don’t want to do that most of the time, on account of you can’t see out so good,” the man standing in the cupola replied, illustrating his own point. “Besides, it’s cooled down now, but in the summertime you purely can’t stand getting all cooped up in here. They throw some potatoes in with us, they could serve us up for roast pork.”

  Tom’s stomach did a slow lurch. In the last war and this one, he’d smelled burnt human flesh. It did bear a horrid resemblance to pork left too long on the fire. Would it taste the same way? He didn’t want to know.

  The barrel commander disappeared down into the tur
ret again. As he emerged, the engine noise picked up. The barrel started forward. “Don’t go too far into the woods, or you’ll run into the Yankees,” Tom shouted. The commander cupped a hand behind his ear. Tom said it again, louder this time. The barrel commander waved. Tom hoped that meant he understood, not that he was just being friendly.

  A few minutes later, two more Confederate barrels rattled down the road after the first one. Tom Colleton frowned. Had some kind of push been ordered, one nobody’d bothered to tell him about? He wouldn’t have been surprised; that kind of thing happened too often. On the other hand, maybe the barrels’ crews thought something was going on when it really wasn’t. In that case, they were likely to get a nasty surprise.

  Frowning, Tom shouted for a wireless man. The soldier with the heavy pack on his back seemed to materialize out of thin air. One second, he was nowhere around. The next, he stood in front of Colleton, asking, “What do you need, sir?”

  “Put me through to division HQ in Sandusky,” Tom answered. “I want to find out what the hell’s going on up here.”

  When the wireless man wanted to, he had a wicked laugh. “What makes you think they’ll know?”

  That held more truth than Tom wished it did. “Somebody has to,” he said. “They’re as good a bet as any, and better than most. Come on, get on the horn with them.”

  “Right.” The wireless man got busy. Before he could raise Sandusky, though, an antibarrel cannon went off in the direction the Confederate barrels had taken. It fired several rounds. Those weren’t big guns; a crew could serve them lickety-split. A machine gun started to answer, undoubtedly trying to shoot down the gunners, but fell silent all at once. A moment later, Tom heard ammunition start to cook off. At least one of those barrels was history.

  He muttered a curse and set a hand on the wireless man’s shoulder. “Never mind. I just got my answer.” Pulling his pistol from its holster, he ran forward to see what he could do for the luckless barrel men.

  Some of them came running or staggering back toward him. Most were wounded. A couple of the soldiers in butternut coveralls turned around and went with him. The others kept going. Tom didn’t suppose he could blame them, not after what had just happened.

  And it turned out not to matter any which way. All three barrels were burning. Tom couldn’t get close to any of them. Several men, including the commander of that first barrel, lay dead near the dead machines. Tom swore again. They’d walked into a buzzsaw. He hoped the end had come quickly for them. Sometimes, in war, that was as much as you could hope for.

  A burst of machine-gun fire chewed up the fallen leaves not far from his feet. He dove for cover and swore one more time, now at himself. He hadn’t come up here to be a target. Of course, the poor bastards in the barrels hadn’t, either, and what had happened to them?

  The damnyankee behind the machine gun squeezed off another burst. Hunting me, the son of a bitch, Tom thought as he rolled and scrambled toward and then behind the thickest tree he could find. The U.S gunner’s fire went a little wide. Tom lay there panting for a couple of minutes. In the last war, he might have laughed at himself for getting into and out of a scrape like that. He didn’t feel like laughing any more.

  Careful not to draw the machine gunner’s notice again, he crawled off to the west, putting as many trees between himself and the enemy as he could. Only when he was sure he could do it without getting shot did he climb to his feet. By then, he was so wet, he might as well not have bothered with the rain slicker. He felt like a cat that had fallen into a pond.

  To add insult to injury—or, here, almost to add injury to insult—some Confederate soldiers hurrying into the woods came close to shooting him for a Yankee. No good deed goes unpunished, he thought as he finally made it back out into open country.

  His wireless man looked him over. “Sir, you’re a mess.”

  “Thanks. Thanks a hell of a lot, Rick,” Tom said. “I never would have figured that out without you.”

  Rick took his canteen off his belt. “Here you go, sir. Have a knock of this.” This turned out to be a good deal more potent than water. Tom swigged gratefully.

  “Ahhh,” he said when the fire in his gullet had faded a little. “That hit the spot. Now get on the horn to divisional headquarters. They need to know the damnyankees have got antibarrel guns and all sorts of other little delights lurking in those woods.”

  “I’ll do it, sir,” the wireless man said, and he did. Tom spoke with heat perhaps partly inspired by the liquid flames he’d just drunk.

  “Well, we’ll see what we can do about it.” The staff officer back in Sandusky didn’t sound very worried. Why should he be? He was far enough behind the lines that nobody was shooting at him. He went on, “Can’t really send out the Mules in weather like this, you know.”

  He was bound to be dry and under a roof, too. More cold water trickled down the back of Tom Colleton’s neck. He was amazed his anger didn’t turn it to steam. “Have you ever heard of artillery?” he growled.

  “Oh, yes, sir,” the staff officer said brightly. “I told you, sir—we’ll see what we can do. Things are spread a little thin right now.”

  “What’s left of three crews’ worth of barrels is spread pretty thin right now, too,” Tom said. “They didn’t know what they were walking into. Now they’ve found out the hard way. The Yankees need to pay for that.”

  “Yes, sir,” the staff officer said. That wasn’t agreement; Tom had listened to too many polite but unyielding staff officers to mistake it for any such thing. The man was just saying that he heard Tom. He went on, “I’m afraid I can’t make you any promises, but I’ll do what I can.”

  “Right. Thanks. Out.” Tom’s thanks wasn’t gratitude, either. It was rage. He turned away from the wireless set before he said something worse.

  Rick understood that perfectly. “Don’t worry, sir,” he said. “I broke the link as soon as you said,, ‘Out.” “

  “Thanks.” This time, Tom did mean it. “I won’t say you saved me a court-martial, but I won’t say you didn’t, either. Those goddamn behind-the-lines types are all the same. No skin off their nose what happens up here, because it isn’t happening to them.”

  The wireless man looked at him with real surprise. “You sound like a noncom grousing about officers, sir. Uh, no offense.”

  Tom laughed. “You think we don’t know what noncoms say about us? It’s the same as privates say about noncoms.”

  Rick looked surprised again, this time in a different way. “You know what? I reckon you’re right. I know what I called sergeants before I got stripes on my sleeve.”

  Artillery did start falling on the forest. The bombardment wasn’t as hard as Tom would have liked to see it, but it was heavy enough to let division HQ think they’d taken care of the problem—and to say so if the people who gave them orders ever asked about it. Tom could have called Sandusky again and complained, but he didn’t see the point. He was getting what Division had to give. If the Confederates had planned a big push through those woods, that would have been a different story. He would have squawked then no matter what. Now? No.

  Before long, U.S. artillery started shooting back at the C.S. guns. The counterbattery fire also seemed halfhearted. How much had the United States moved from Ohio to Virginia? Would the Confederate defenders there be able to hold on? From where Tom was, he could only hope so.

  As he always did when he went to the front, Jake Featherston was having the time of his life. He often wished he could chuck the presidency, put on his old sergeant’s uniform, and go back to blowing up the damnyankees. Of course, that would leave Don Partridge in charge of the country, which was a truly scary thought.

  But what could be better than yanking the lanyard, hearing the gun roar, and watching another shell fly off to come down on some U.S. soldiers’ heads? This was what Jake had been made for. Everything that came after he took off the uniform . . . There were times when it might have happened to somebody else.

  An
d he loved the automatic rifles Confederate soldiers carried. He had a hell of a time filling the air with lead when Yankee fighters shot up the gun pits. He hadn’t hit anything yet, but he kept trying. It drove his bodyguards nuts.

  He wished the Confederates had thrown back the U.S. attack without letting it get across the Rappahannock. In a perfect world, things would have worked out like that. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride, Featherston thought. The damnyankees were over the Rappahannock, and driving for the Rapidan. They weren’t slicing through the C.S. defenders the way the Confederates had sliced through the Yankees in Ohio, but they were still going forward. And they didn’t have to go all that far before they got to Richmond.

  “Sir? Mr. President?” somebody shouted right next to Jake.

  He jumped. What with the bellowing guns of the battery and his own thoughts, he hadn’t even realized this crisp-looking young captain of barrels had come up. “Sorry, sonny,” he said. “Afraid I’ve got a case of artilleryman’s ear. What’s up?” Too much time by the guns had left him a little hard of hearing, especially in the range of sounds in which people spoke. But he was also selectively deaf. When he didn’t feel like listening to somebody, he damn well didn’t, regardless of whether he heard him.

  “Sir, General Patton’s come up to talk with you,” the captain answered.

  “Has he, by God?” Featherston said. The young officer nodded. Jake slapped him on the back, hard enough to stagger him. “Well, lead the way, then. I’m always interested in what General Patton has to say.”

  Again, he wasn’t lying. He’d picked George Patton as a winner before the barrel commander helped put the Confederates in Sandusky. Patton’s driving aggressiveness reminded him of his own. The general always had his eye on the main chance. You wouldn’t go anywhere in this world if you didn’t.